Watercolor Angel
by PurpleAsteroid
Summary: [Italy x Reader] "Don't you have enough paintings of me already?" You fail at trying to sound annoyed. The giddy grin on your face is unstoppable. How many portraits of you were made already? Feliciano had nothing against pictures, he only thought paintings were more special. You agreed.


When you appear in his room, he's awake, working on a painting on a small canvas. He doesn't mind the boring white of the small room, nor the stiff sheets or beeping machines. When he paints, you realize, nothing bothers him. At all. He's lost in his world, a much, much more colorful world, away from the hospital and the sickness and the sadness.

You watch, mesmerized, as with smooth, precise movements he works, as if pulled by some invisible thing. The fond, content look in his eyes. Paint-spattered hands and sheets, the tubes of watercolor lay around him within easy reach. Glasses with murky water and used brushes.

This is the only burst of color in the room. And yet, it feels like it's enough.

"What're you working on?" you ask, gliding over to him and peering over the canvas.

He grins brightly. "A painting of you," he answers all too honestly, with so much cheerfulness it made you wonder if he really _was _sick at all.

"M-me?" You feel heat on your cheeks.

"Si, bella," he says, turning the canvas around to face you. You gaped in awe as you stare at the canvas where he had so carefully painted you in soft, beautiful watercolors. "A watercolor angel," he smiles, tilting his head slightly. You manage to smile back, the word 'angel' immediately bringing you back to the first time you met.

_"So you're like a grim reaper?" He doesn't seem scared or frightened at all, instead his amber eyes gleam with curiosity._

_You sigh and brace yourself for the usual explaining. "Well, sort of, but not really," you begin, trying to find the right words. "We...my kind, Guardians...we're sort of like guards, companions for people who have-" you make a sweeping gesture at the machines by his bedside "-only a little bit of time left in the world."_

_"Guards?" he repeats, "like guardian angels? To watch over me?"_

_He doesn't even react to the fact that he'll be dying soon...?_

_You nod carefully, unsure of where this conversation is going. You've been assigned to many other humans in the past, but he certainly was different. Stranger. And, maybe this was what was bugging you, the fact that he didn't act like he was to die any time soon._

_Put aside all the beeping machines, the vague hospital smells of antiseptic and something else, and the medications, he looks so normal, a young boy. He isn't moping or sulking despite the fact that he had to stay in bed all day. Not that he wanted to._

_Well, there was paleness in his skin, but other than that you find no physical clue to give away his sickness. His eyes are bright, brighter than normal actually, and he smiles. _Smiles. _It's been so long since you've been assigned to anyone that actually smiled...was there ever one that did?_

_He suddenly grins brightly, head bobbing to the side. "You're an angel, then!"_

_This actually takes you aback. You had never been called that before, not once in so many years. Nor have you heard of anyone calling your kind anything positive. Most people were only scared of dying, panicking, screaming. Otherwise, they were sullen and bitter about dying or about life. _

_This Feliciano Vargas...is the strangest person you have ever met._

You run your finger lightly down the textured surface, careful not to touch the watercolors. Wow...

"That's yours, by the way," he announces, flashing you another warm smile. You smiled back, still unable to process how he can smile so much in a day.

"Feli-"

The door suddenly opens, and in walks his brother...Lovino Vargas, right? He's wearing the usual scowl, holding a tray that held a plate of genuine Italian pasta (you knew because Feliciano told you he or Lovino or his grandfather made it, therefore it was 'the best pasta' and any argument was invalid). However, his hazel eyes soften once he sees his brother.

"Feliciano, it's dinner," he says simply, setting down the tray on the stand beside the bed, and then propping up a little table across Feli's blanketed knees. He then places the pasta on the table, and then stands there for a bit. He bends down and smooths his brother's hair back as a rare show of affection.

_"_Are you feeling okay? Not dizzy or sick or anything?" he asks worriedly.

"I'm fine, _fratello_," Feliciano answers truthfully, now beginning to twirl his fork around the pasta. I can tell he's happy to see his brother, who now comes everyday. From what Feli had told me, before he got sick his brother rarely ever visited.

Lovino nods curtly, a faint trace of a smile gracing his lips. "_Bene_. The potato bas-er, Ludwig, is coming over tomorrow. I think a few of your friends are coming too."

"Tomorrow?" Feli frowns a little, setting down the fork. "He was supposed to come yesterday...he told me last week..."

Lovino scowls now. "Eh, he didn't come yesterday? Bastard must have been spending the day inhaling potatoes by the sack, forgetting to visit-"

"_Fratello_!" Feliciano exclaims. You know he doesn't like it when his brother says anything negative about his best friend. You've seen Ludwig come over thrice already. Really tall, stern, so much smarter for his age. You wonder how he, of all people, became Feliciano's best friend and even put up with him. Granted, he was sometimes put off or annoyed by him, but they were...well, really close.

A sigh. Lovino rolls his eyes, and again brushes his brother's hair from his forehead. A loud buzzing emits from his pocket and he takes out his cell phone, glances at the caller and excuses himself outside, mumbling into the device in a mix of Italian and English. Feliciano begins to eat, and you take time to look around.

A lazy conversation picks up somewhere along the way after his pasta dinner, something about him talking about his childhood in Italy; sunny days and tomato fields, gelato by a small brick shop downtown, the best pasta and pizza for dinner. You listened to his travels, visiting relatives that spread far across Europe.

At some points you close your eyes, trying to imagine it. The sun-baked asphalt under your feet, maybe the grass and dirt. Warm smells wafting from open shop doors, murmurs, yells, songs in Italian a low buzz that somehow blends in the background. Children playing on the streets. The azure blue of the skies during morning and early afternoon, and the orange-pink during sunrise or sunset was what he loved the most.

The feeling of being alive...again...

You may have forgotten, but he was there to remind you. A small smile tugs at your lips. By now his stories are coming slower and slower; he's getting sleepy. You fight the urge to brush back his coppery hair, even though your hands itch to do so. You settle for just watching.

Hours later, at nine o'clock or so, a nurse came in to put him to sleep. You took that chance to wave goodbye at him and fade away, back to your own world.

Guardians weren't supposed to have feelings for mortals.

It was almost like some unwritten, unspoken law; but everyone knew. It wasn't exactly forbidden, per se, not an official law and not punishable, but everyone knew that falling in love, or having a bond with a mortal would be painful. Of course, they were assigned to dying people, and that explains everything.

You'd seen it before. Someone giving up their immortality to be with a mortal. Went right up to the council, screamed at them, begged, and got his request. He vanished immediately. After that, you wondered if that would ever happen to you.

Fall in love with a mortal, give up your own immortality, or, maybe, existence?

Right now...you didn't know. Yes, you loved Feliciano. You really did. Your hand trails down the painting of you, the one he'd made, for you. He was a burst of lively color, something you knew you'd terribly miss. What would you do after he died? No more of the smells of his brother or grandfather's pasta, no more messy paint-speckled sheets, no more chattering and laughing.

And you would go back, again, to watching over dull people, either so sick of life or scared of dying.

Would you really spend the rest of eternity like this?

Your gaze travels to the sand timer. Less than two days left. There's a tightness in your chest you've never felt before, something really

new. Less than two days...and he would be gone. Forever.

After two days there would be no turning back and that was that.

You sighed, rubbing angrily at a tear that forced its way out, streaking down your cheek.

He was weakening.

This was the last hour. You stood at the side of the bed, gritting your teeth. The heart monitor was going crazy; his breathing was ragged and came at uneven intervals. Please...

"Hey..." he whispers. He struggles to smile, and manages to. You feel like breaking down. Shouting. Crying. _Something. _But you couldn't show anything. Instead you close your eyes, swallowing; "Y-yes?"

"What's heaven supposed to be like?"

"I don't know." A strangled sob.

"Oh..." He seems sad at this. Disappointed. A sudden spasm ripples through his body, making both of you cringe. Why wasn't anyone coming? The doctors? Lovino? Where were they? "Is it...happy there?"

"Yes." _'Just stop, please...'_

"Remember the watercolor painting of you that I made?" He tries to chuckle, laugh or something, but ends up in a coughing fit. The monitor's lines become jerkier, zigzagged. You didn't know whether to hit him or just cry. How can he act so happy, at a time like this, when he's dying?

"Yes."

"Do you still have it?"

"Yes."

His lips turn up into the soft smile that you so know, the one that you'll never see again because in a matter of minutes it will disappear along with him. You look long and hard at it, committing it to memory. "_Bene,_" he whispers, his eyes closing slowly. "Good."

The tears sting.

Your heart stings.

"My watercolor angel..." he murmurs, almost inaudibly. _'Why don't you just stop...' _you take a step back, tears of anger and frustration making their way down your face. You want to curse out everything, lash out. But you can't. You want to tell him to stop acting like this, face the reality that he's dying and you can't do anything about it and you will never see him again. Ever.

And that's when the doctor bustles in, followed by three other people in white.

Outside, you hear yelling in Italian, curses and sobs. You can see them through the small window in the door; Lovino, Feliciano's grandfather,

so many more. Another family crying. You've seen this so, so many times, but this time it's twice as painful as it ever was or will be. They looked so broken...

And, for a moment, through the swinging doors, you find his brother staring right at you; hazel eyes burning into yours. But you blink, and he's facing away by then. You swallow. Feliciano is crowded by doctors. Machines are beeping, the sound boring into your mind. They're frantic now, so very panicked.

"We can't..."

"He's-"

The only thing you can see clearly is the straight green line on the monitor. The beeping is the most horrible sound you have and will ever hear. Everything else ceases to exist.

_Gone._

Head hung low, teeth gritted and tears now freely spilling from your eyes, you begin to do the last step of your job; collect his soul.

_Goodbye..._

It's been years.

How many, exactly, you have no idea. Decades...maybe? Yes, it's well over a decade. You've lost count. You've resumed your usual duties, watching over people and collecting souls. Back to the sullen, bitter months spent with people who were only shells of what they used to be, weighed down with the news of their upcoming deaths.

Sometimes there were exceptions. One time, there was a little girl with cancer. But sometimes, she was bright and happy. Somewhat like Feliciano. But not quite.

"It must be nice living forever, right?"

You sat down by her bed and smoothed her hair back, a small, sad smile playing on your lips. "Not all the time." A happy smile flashed in your mind. Feliciano's. You missed him so much.

"But you don't get to die," she insists, head tilting innocently. "You'll always be the oldest, and you get to see so many things!"

You sigh. "You'll understand...someday, maybe." _Immortality isn't all fun and games and growing up to be thousands of years old. _So much has changed since then. She only nods quietly, going back to her coloring book. She was so innocent...

After that, nothing happens. No more bursts of color. Sure, sometimes there are talks of childhood and earlier lives, but nothing compares to how Feliciano made you feel so...alive again. Now you were back, the reality that you are dead slapping you in the face harsher than ice-cold water. No more warmth.

You still had the painting. After all these years, it was still there; you were torn from loving it and wanting to rip it apart. In the end, the first option always won. Remembering him and trying to forget him were equally painful. For some reason, they allowed you to keep it...the watercolors were still vibrant after all this time.

As vibrant and bright as he always was.

_A bright room. Sunlight streams through the windows, creating patterns on the stone floor. It smells of homemade cooking, Feliciano's various dishes. Soft music is playing, something you can't put your finger on, but it sounds cheerful. There's paintbrushes and glasses everywhere, not that you mind._

_He sits in the middle of the room, in front of the canvas. Under him are newspapers, but still clean. He doesn't waste a drop of paint. _

_It's a nice summer day, he says. He's right. Outside there are people selling ice cream, children playing with water. The flowers give a slight sweet smell to the already fresh air and the sky is a pale, beautiful blue, the clouds are perfect and white. You smile, wishing you could keep this second forever, live in this moment forever._

_"Keep still," he says from behind the canvas he won't show until he's done._

_You stick your tongue out, trying to keep yourself steady. "Don't you have enough paintings of me already?" You fail at trying to sound annoyed. The giddy grin on your face is unstoppable. How many portraits of you were made already? Feliciano had nothing against pictures, he only thought paintings were more special._

_You agreed. _

_After the painting session (he still didn't let you see the painting), he stood up and stretched, joining you on the window seat with a bowl of gelato, settling down with watching you read. It was quiet and peaceful for a moment; perfect._

_"Hey, _?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Ti amo."_

_"Ti amo troppo, Feli."_


End file.
